


Stronger Venus holds the noose

by Koiios



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Blow Jobs, Body Worship, Cunnilingus, F/M, Het, Initial Rejection, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn, Reader-Insert, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, but only mild tbh, dont let the poetic title fool you this really is just filth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 07:34:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28631817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Koiios/pseuds/Koiios
Summary: Connor has not the time to give a woman, until one day he does.
Relationships: Ratonhnhaké:ton | Connor & Reader, Ratonhnhaké:ton | Connor & You, Ratonhnhaké:ton | Connor/Reader, Ratonhnhaké:ton | Connor/You
Comments: 6
Kudos: 56





	Stronger Venus holds the noose

**Author's Note:**

> This is the shameless result of seeing a few tumblr posts of late complaining about the lack of smut in which Ratonhnhaké:ton is characterised as something other than a virgin. To anyone who made such a post that might be reading this, enjoy!

_At either end they strive the link to loose;_

_In vain, for stronger Venus holds the noose._

For a man who is so direct when he speaks, Connor is frustratingly difficult to read. Perhaps it is owing to the stretches of time that he spends away from the homestead, perhaps it is that he speaks so little of himself – an admirable trait, really; she has spent far too much time around men who do not know how to speak of anything but themselves – but when one is locked in such a dance as this, the dance of stolen glances and lingering hands, no explanation is helpful. She’s no fool – she’s seen the way he’s looked at her, the way he lingers in her doorway, arm braced against the frame, eyes dark. She’s sure she’s looked at him in much the same way, full of hunger, full of yearning. She’s never met a man like him, a man who is strong but does not use his strength to hurt those weaker than himself, a man with money who freely gives it away, a man of learning who does not view others with the general contempt of the educated elite. God, she wants him.

She will have to take a page out of his book, she thinks, and be direct. An unusual measure, and one she knows might get her no place good, but frustration has built within her too long, he has looked and yet stayed silent for too long, and if nothing else she would know where she stands. Perhaps it is not proper for a woman to pursue a man, but if she knows anything of the homestead she knows that it is not a place where propriety takes precedence, and she is not sure how much value Connor places in traditional notions of courtship, anyway. Again, it is something he has never revealed about himself. He reveals so very little that she’s not even convinced that Connor is even his name, but he has not said otherwise, and it is what everyone calls him.

He’s away, doing whatever it is he does, though, so she will have to wait. It gives her time to think of exactly what she might say. It also gives her time to get nervous, to consider backing down from the plan, and continuing as normal when he returns. She has all but decided not to say anything after all, but then she sees him again. Broad and tall and smiling at his friends as he trots his horse down the path, dark hair rustled by the breeze, dark eyes dancing with humour at something Norris shouts at him. His fingers are soft on the reins, so soft he might as well not be holding them, and he lets the creature steer itself. It knows the way home, and he respects its sense of direction. Long fingers, calloused fingers, peeking from his gloves. Something twists low in her stomach as she leans on her fence and watches him pass, and he lifts a hand to wave to her. She nearly misses the gesture, so wrapped up in her imaginings, but remembers herself just in time to wave back, even if the reciprocation is awkwardly delayed. He only smiles, soft and almost knowing (god, she hopes not) and trots on.

She has to speak with him. She cannot tolerate another day here unless she does something about this. It’s decided.

She gives him the afternoon to settle, get reacquainted with his home, and then she marches herself up to the manor, turning her speech over in her head. When he opens the door she notices that the surcoat of his robes has been removed, and he stands only in his white shirt and trousers, and that red sash belt. His sleeves are rolled up to the elbow, revealing thick forearms, thickly veined. She forgets everything she meant to say.

“Are you alright?” He asks, after she stands in silence for longer than she should. He is full of concern; he is always full of concern, always happy to help. _God_ , who made him?

“Yes,” She answers, forcing a smile, “Quite alright. I have come to speak with you, actually.”

“By all means,” He steps aside and gestures for her to enter, and once she has stepped gingerly over the threshold he closes the door behind them, “What did you need to speak with me about? Is there something that needs fixing? I am not so good with handiwork myself, you might be better served by Lance.”

“Lance cannot help me with this particular issue,” She says, choosing her words carefully. He has led her into the lounge, and gestures for her to sit. He takes a seat opposite, leaning forward and bracing his arms on his thighs, all ears, “It concerns you.”

“Me? I hope I have not offended.”

“Not at all!” She rushes out, quick to correct the misunderstanding. She is perhaps a little too eager, though, and clears her throat, embarrassed, “No, not at all. Quite the opposite, actually. I – uhm – are you seeing anybody?”

“Seeing anybody?” He asks, leaning back, off his elbows. She knows he knows what she means, but he will not make assumptions unless she clarifies.

“Courting anybody, I mean. Is there a woman, somewhere, that you fancy?”

He laughs, at that. Actually laughs. Not in great bellowing peals, not like Godfrey laughs, and not in cackles, not like Catherine laughs, but a low chuckle, warm and amused. His eyes shine with mirth, and he seems to relax entirely.

“This is what you came to speak to me about?” He asks, equal parts surprised and good-humoured. She can feel the heat of shame under her skin, but she’s in it now. It will be just as much trouble to back out as to keep on. Besides, she’s gone so far as to ask the question, now she’d like an answer.

“It is,” She says, a little defensively. He is not the type to mock or make fun, but his humour has caught her off-guard, and she is embarrassed, “Well? Do you fancy someone?”

“I am not courting anyone, no,” He answers smoothly, “At present I do not have as much time as such a commitment might require. Soon, I think, I may be able to consider it. May I ask why you are interested?”

“Curious, I suppose,” She says, though it is a little short of the truth. She has not come here to lie, she reminds herself, “Well, more than that, actually. Would you be offended if I said I fancied you?”

If she expected to see him surprised, her expectations are unfounded. He seems entirely calm at the question, smiles even, “No, I would not be offended. Do you?”

She thinks of answering with something vague, throwing out a ‘perhaps’ or a ‘maybe’ to protect herself from embarrassment, but again, she is too far gone for all of that, “I do.”

“You are a beautiful woman,” He says, “And I admire your courage in coming here to tell me this. I will not deny that I have thought of you, often, but I am afraid I would not be able to make you as much a priority as you deserve. My work keeps me too busy.”

The rejection cuts deeply, despite the respect with which he has pronounced it. She stands quickly, straightens her skirts, and nods. She won’t look at him now, won’t make eye contact.

“I understand. Forget I said anything, please.”

“I am sorry I cannot give you the answer you are looking for,” He says, and there is genuine regret in his voice. She forces another smile, tries to look unhurt.

“No matter. I have wasted enough of your time, and there are things I must be doing. Please excuse me.”

He opens his mouth as if he means to protest, or say something else to try and soothe the injury, but evidently decides that words will do no good. He walks her silently to the door, opens it for her and bids her good evening.

He leaves early the next day, and she watches him on his way to the docks through her window, and thinks it is for the best he is gone, so that she might nurse her wound in secret, without reminder.

All in all he is gone for some months. He returns unceremoniously one day, heads straight for the manor, and within an hour he is at her doorstep. He has changed out of his captain’s garb, though she thinks he looks remarkably handsome in it, in favour of the simple white and blue of his usual dress.

“Good evening,” She greets, “And what brings you to darken my doorstep?”

“I hope I am not intruding. I should like to speak with you.”

She welcomes him in, offers him a chair, food and drink. He refuses all, preferring to stand, hands clasped in front of him, in the centre of the room.

“I have thought much about your visit to me, before I left,” He admits, straightforwardly, “I have thought much of _you._ ”

“Oh?” She asks, and suddenly her pulse is quickening, and her stomach is twisting, and she is trying desperately hard not to get her hopes up, to act natural, “And what was the conclusion of all this thinking?”

“I told you before that I did not have time,” He says, voice low and warm. He holds her gaze as he speaks, dark and intense, “I have time now, if you have not changed your mind.”

There is a moment of excruciating silence, in which she cannot quite form words, and to his credit he does not falter as she might have, does let the stretch of quiet unsettle him. He holds her eye, does not fidget. He is pure, direct intent, too brave to be shaken by the prospect of rejection. She crosses the room to him, covers his hands with her own, lifts them to her lips to press a kiss to the knuckles.

“No,” She says, very quiet, for his ears only, “I have not changed my mind.”

“I am glad to hear it,” He sighs out, and gently fits his fingers around her jaw, angles her chin up, and leans down to kiss her. He is patient, at first, delicate in how he kisses her, in how he holds her head in his hands, but this is a kiss between two people who have wanted each other in silence for too long, and patience cannot hold. She is the first to press further, taking the lapels of his robes into her fists, and chasing his lips when he tries to pull away, pulling against his clothes to drag him back down. He laughs, a little breathlessly, and the laugh dies against her lips when he kisses her again. He’s more insistent this time; she has given him some idea of what she wants from him, and it is a little more than delicacy, and he is in no mood to deny her. Strong hands hold her firmly by the waist, pressing her tight to him, and she winds her fingers into his hair. He takes a few steps forwards, walking her back into the wall, and trapped as she is now between the solid brick and the hard muscle of his torso, she thinks she might die of happiness. If this is a dream, and she still half suspects it is, she hopes she never wakes.

Her fingers fret at his robes, pushing the surcoat off his shoulders, and he takes it as encouragement enough to press his lips to her jaw, mouthing along the ridge of bone and then down to her throat, pressing hot kisses across the delicate skin there. His lips find her pulse-point, and in the back of her mind she wonders if he can feel the pounding of her heart against his mouth.

He pulls away after some moments, all too soon, and looks down at her, eyes dark and breaths coming heavier, “I will not pretend that I have not wanted this,” He says, low, voice tempered by a slight tremor, “But I will not have you do something you would not like to.”

He does not need to say exactly what he means – she knows what he is implying, and she wants it just as badly. She shakes her head, “I want this. You want it?”

“I have ached for you,” Is his answer, breathed heavily against the skin of her neck as his lips reconnect. The words alone are enough to work a whimper up her throat, to say nothing of the way his hands now knead her flesh, groping at her hips and around to the globes of her ass. He lifts her, seemingly effortlessly, and she winds her legs around his waist. He holds her with one arm, letting her back rest against the wall, as with his other hand he resumes his half-careful, half-desperate exploration of her body, fingers tracing a path across her thigh and up the side of her body, pausing to cup her breast. An experimental squeeze of the soft flesh earns him a pitched gasp and has her back arching off the wall for more. He cannot seem to touch her enough to satisfy himself, and she certainly cannot get enough of him touching her. In between roving hands and feverish kisses, he manages to huff out a single question, “Bedroom?”

She nods, all too eager, and lets him carry her up the stairs and deposit her gently on the bed. When he doesn’t crawl over her she gets immediately to her knees, kneeling up to kiss him as he stands at the bedside, fingers making light work of the buttons of his shirt. The sash belt that crosses his waist keeps her from pushing the shirt completely off his shoulders, and that is a slightly trickier fastening. Frustration bubbles up her throat and she groans, and he answers with a laugh, knocking her hands away gently to address the issue himself. It drops to her bedroom floor in a long ribbon of red, and the shirt is quick to follow. She sits back on her heels a moment just to admire what has been revealed to her; warm skin and strong muscle, the most powerfully built figure she has ever seen. She knew Connor was fit; she’d seen him climbing trees, sprinting about, but she didn’t know he was _this_ fit. His fingers brush across her arm, eager to pull her back to him, but only if she wants. She does want, badly. She is on him without a second thought, lips trailing the expanse of skin just revealed to her, and she kisses across his chest and down, further, his fingers reach around to the lacings of her dress.

The lacings do not seem such a formidable opponent at first, not for deft fingers like his, but when she pushes down against his trousers, looks up at him for confirmation that she is allowed to do so, his mind goes blank and his hands become uselessly clumsy. He can only nod, revelling in the way her fingers trail across his hipbones as they nudge down what is left of his clothing. His cock springs free, hard and jutting up toward the muscle of his abdomen, and something coils in her at the sight of it.

“Can I?” She asks, prettily as she can manage (which isn’t as prettily as she’d like, nowhere near), and he nods again.

“You do not have to ask.”

Permission given, she leans forward, licks experimentally up the length of it. That alone earns her a low groan, and when she takes him into her mouth his hips buck forward and he gasps. That is a sound she has never heard from his mouth, a _gasp_ , and she’d like more. She sinks into it, taking him as deep as she can, and pulls back slowly, tongue flattened against him, cheeks hollowed, and when she swirls her tongue across the tip of him he gasps again, and then moans, and God the noises are delicious. From his mouth she can hardly believe them. He is so composed, so measured, and now with a few careful ministrations it is all lost. He twists his fingers into her hair, guides her rhythm gently with his hand, and she looks up to watch him. Watch as his eyes close and his head falls back, watch as his lips part to spill all those lewd little noises, low grunts and moans. He looks down at her, meets her eye, and his jaw slackens and then goes tense, and he pulls her off him. Her mouth comes away from him with a pop, and he is breathing heavily, chest heaving.

“I am sorry,” He says, breathlessly, “I could not take any more of that. And you are still clothed.”

“We will have to remedy that,” She says with a smile, and when she goes to unlace her dress herself he stops her.

“No. I would like to.”

He is still panting, still breathless, and his cock is redder now and straining, but she obliges him, positions herself so that the laces are easily within his reach. He is a little impatient, a little rough in his undoing, but he does not tear the dress. Still, he pulls it away with considerable haste, tugging it up and over her head, tossing it to the floor. Her corset is quick to follow. His eyes are dark, so, so dark, when he looks at her, and with his hand he knocks her gently onto her back, crawls over top of her. He kisses her languorously now, like he wants to savour this, to take time and pleasure in it as he undresses her. His hands skirt up her legs and under her shift, kneading the soft flesh of her thighs, which she parts willingly for him, letting him settle himself between them. She can feel the insistent press of his cock against her hipbone, and it’s driving her a little insane. She is caught in the awful conundrum of wanting him to continue with his reverent exploration of her body, and wanting him inside her, now.

But the choice is his, and he is apparently in no mood to hurry this. He has waited too long for it, but he will not throw it away, bring it to its end too hastily, out of impatience. He wants to see, touch, kiss, every inch of her, and he starts by catching the hem of her shift between his fingers, tugging upwards. Obligingly she lifts her hips, lets him divest her of it, and once she is utterly undressed he sits back to look at her, naked beneath him.

“Beautiful,” He praises, “So beautiful,” and then he cannot compliment her anymore because his lips are on her skin. With his mouth he traces a line down from her clavicles to her breasts, lavishing each with particular attention, catching her nipples between his teeth and tugging in a way that makes her back arch and her whole body tighten, and a whine works its way up and out of her. She can feel his smile against her skin, and it is only the slightest curve of his lips, but self-satisfied, and then he ventures lower still, pausing to dip his tongue into her navel. His hands go to her thighs, push them further apart, strong fingers sinking into soft flesh, and before she realises what he is about to do she feels his tongue, hot and wet, stroke through her folds. She keens, thighs tensing, and he holds them open. She moans when his tongue drags over her again, circling her clit a few times before building into some semblance of a rhythm, lapping eagerly.

“C-Connor,” She exhales loudly, and even she is surprised by how lewd she sounds, how obscene his name sounds, a moan rolling from her mouth. She cannot bring herself to care, however, not when he presses his tongue inside her in response, and her whole body shivers in response, shocks of pleasure lancing through her. He lifts his head a moment, locks eyes with her, and she is about to ask why he has stopped when he speaks.

“Ratonhnhaké:ton,” He corrects gently, “My name, it is Ratonhnhaké:ton,” He says it slowly the second time, and she turns it over in her head, making sure she has the sounds right.

“Ratonhnhaké:ton,” She breathes, “Please don’t stop.”

He laughs breathily, but does not disobey. When he resumes his rhythm she finds herself moaning freely, rocking her hips against his mouth in silent demand for more. He rises to the challenge by sucking, and she’s so wet that the slurping noises accompanying the action are almost unbearably indecent, and she’s of half a mind to stop him but she _can’t,_ not now, when her legs are shaking against his hands and the tight coil in her stomach, and _god¸_ she wants him to touch her, to fuck her, anything to push her over the edge. His name sounds from her lips again, broken and more hiccupped than spoken, and he gets the hint, pushes two long fingers inside her. He pumps them maybe twice in time with the motions of his tongue and that is enough to send her spiralling, have her back arching off the bed, her mouth opened in a silent cry, fingers gripping hard at his hair, legs tensing about his head. When the shockwaves subside and she finally relaxes he leans back, fingers still inside her, massaging slowly, guiding her gently down from her high. He’s watching her hungrily, free hand pumping his cock. She pushes her hips up towards him, insistent, and he chuckles.

“Impatient,” He chides softly, “What do you want?”

“You. Please, I want you.”

He gathers her into his arms, turns them so that he is leaning against the headboard, and she is perched on his lap. She can feel the press of him against her core, now, so close to where she needs him. She rocks her hips against him, grinding her slick heat across the length of him and he growls low in her ear. Patience abandons him now, and with one hand to her ass her lifts her hips, with the other he guides himself towards her entrance, and with a mutual sigh he slides into her. He presses a few clumsy kisses to her face, then rests his forehead against hers, gripping her by the backside to begin steering her up and down.

It’s a little slow, a little awkward at first, as she adjusts to the size of him and they figure out a rhythm that works, her rocking down onto him and him canting his hips up to meet hers, but eventually they build speed, and soon she has tossed her head back, capable only of whining and moaning for _more, more please more,_ and his open mouth presses to the hollow of her throat as he fucks into her, faster and harder, breathing her name against her skin, fingers pressing so hard into the flesh of her ass that she is sure it will bruise. It doesn’t matter; what matters now is him, and the slip and surge of him inside her, and _how good_ he is making her feel. He reaches a hand down between their bodies, pressing the pad of his thumb to her clit, and she nearly _screams,_ nearly cries, and the pressure and the pleasure is nearly more than she can take, but she takes it anyway. Eventually she cannot keep up the rhythm of her hips, and so he flips them, laying her on her back and picking up the pace again, and the relentless press of his hips into hers and the scrape of his thumb along that bundle of nerves is too much, too, too much.

“Ratonhnha- ah!” Is as much as she is able to get out when his cock hits something inside of her and she crumbles around him, vision blurring and body spasming, and he fucks her through it, whispering things in her ear that she can’t quite make out, one hand finding its way to her breast to knead and squeeze, and her orgasm seems endless, wave after wave of pleasure hitting her as he continues to rut his hips into her, and when the oversensitivity threatens to make her sob he cums, hips stuttering, a low, loud moan spilling from his lips, teeth grazing her skin. A few more languid thrusts and he is spent, collapsing beside her, pulling her against his chest. She is absolutely boneless, and they are both sweaty and exhausted. He presses a tender kiss to her forehead, traces his fingers in gentle circles across her back.

“Worth waiting for,” She breathes, and she can feel his smile against her skin.

“I think so.”


End file.
